


Grove Trees

by Konigsberg



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Prejudice, Cold Weather, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Post-Azure Moon, Post-Canon, Romance, Worldbuilding, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23040463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konigsberg/pseuds/Konigsberg
Summary: Dedue’s frown deepens. “You are doing this for me.”“Perhaps I’m doing it for Sylvain.”The look Dedue sends him is so very dull he almost laughs.Dimitri pines, his friends help (mostly), and he changes Fhridiad's winter fashion in the name of love.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 44
Kudos: 227





	Grove Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Dedue and Duscur are treated with the usual prejudices shown in-game. Hunting, the use of fur, etc. is featured but no hunting is graphically depicted.

Winter in Faerghus is a cruel beast. Fires are maintained in Fhirdiad’s halls throughout the year, but they grow in size and number as fall approaches. Meat is smoked and salted, vegetables are pickled, and various berries are made into jam. The stables are overhauled: Old magical seals meant to keep the horses comfortable are reinvigorated to ensure their function and strength. As soon as the Autumnal Equinox passes, additional tapestries are hung upon the walls in hopes of providing much-needed insulation. The Horsebow Moon marks the first appearance of hand warmers in the market.

Few things have changed, Dimitri finds, when it comes to Dedue’s winter habits. He lays out woven mats and carpets in the great chamber; each time Dimitri comes upon another by the bed or chaise, he cannot help his smile. Dedue increases the heat of the spices in his dishes, much to Felix’s delight (a delight which only grows when, unthinkingly, Sylvain takes great bites of the koshari or drinks the rabbit stew). Quietly, eyes downcast, Dedue requests additional blankets for his quarters; Dimitri tells him he need not ask for his permission, he never does. And, of course, there is the closeness.

During meetings, Felix sits at Dimitri’s left, near enough to dip his head and mutter dark things in his ear. The lords strongly dislike this as Felix so often challenges them, but there is little they can do. On his right, there is Dedue, sitting at a more appropriate distance—until the air turns crisp, that is. When fall bares its teeth, Dedue shifts his chair closer and closer to Dimitri’s own as the days pass; by the time the cold truly sets in, Dedue is as close to Dimitri as Felix is. It places the two of them near enough to mutter to each other across Dimitri while Lord Mateus drones on about the state of trade with Albinea. Thanks to their banter, Dimitri often has to stifle his laughter.

At dinner, Felix flits to sit with Sylvain. His spot at Dimitri’s side is instead claimed by Ingrid or a noble seeking the King’s ear. Dedue, often after assisting in the kitchen, returns to Dimitri.

If Dimitri had it his way, he would take dinner in the solar with his beloved Lions, but the people need to see their King. So the Great Hall it is. They eat at the table reserved for nobility, seated atop a daïs to ensure it may be seen. This aspect of castle life took the most adjustment when he first was crowned, though as a child, he never questioned the arrangement. It feels strange after eating and sometimes even cooking alongside nobles, knights, and commoners alike at Garreg Mach.

Initially, there was a backlash from the most mulish of nobles when Dimitri sat with Dedue—right next to him, just where the future queen would sit, and fresh from the kitchens no less. It was the first time Dimitri felt no guilt in addressing the court with equal stubbornness. No one has questioned it since, at least not in the King’s earshot. Of course, he sees the glances and sometimes meets them with his own. Dedue stays; he will not have it any other way.

Sensing their gazes, Dedue typically maintains the same polite distance in the Great Hall as he does in private meetings. This changes with the first snow. Even the fireplaces on either side of the Hall, the room is quite chilly. It is not uncommon to see Sylvain attempting to close the distance between himself and Ingrid, but it’s only when the air turns icy that she allows it. Felix, even, holds his tongue when Sylvain slings an arm about his shoulders. Annette and Mercedes keep their arms linked, sometimes going as far as to hold hands. Ashe sits close to Dedue’s side so that their arms brush, and, in turn, Dedue sits as close to Dimitri as he dares.

When they are not suffering through long meetings on law and various petitions, Dimitri takes to the solar. The highest tower is warmed by sunlight on bright days, but when it storms, even the solar cannot escape the cold. Servants assist with the fires, particularly when the sky is overcast, but Dimitri is known to wave them off. Tending the fire himself is but a modest price for solitude. When the chance presents itself, he’s sure to keep these fires strong to draw Dedue from the heat of the kitchen.

Often Dedue brings him something heated to drink when he retires to the solar: chamomile tea, coffee, and sometimes apple cider. With the servants behind thick doors and Felix spending his afternoon training or dozing on the chaise, it is as private as it can be. Shielded from prying eyes, Dedue dares to sit closer still. Bodies angled toward each other, knees and shoulders brushing, cups warming their hands, Dimitri can’t imagine anything he wants more.

“What is winter like in Duscur?” Dimitri asks one afternoon. Clasped between his hands is a cup of cider; the heat and scent of it are lulling Dimitri into a state of soft drowsiness. He is unable to taste it, but oh, the smell is heavenly. Their knees brush, if barely; Dedue does not comment on it, so Dimitri allows himself the pleasure of contact, small though it may be.

Typically, Dedue spends this time of year in Duscur. There, he works along with his people, healing old wounds and ensuring the land is not only restored but flourishing. As it is low-lying, Duscur is not subjected to the same harsh treatment from the skies. Still, the seas are known to kick up a fuss and the mountains splitting it from Faerghus are heavily doused with snow. Though he just returned to Fhirdiad last spring, summer found Dedue leaving for his homeland again. Illness struck and clung to the children and elderly so tightly there was fear of it evolving into a plague. He went forth at once with the aid of the Kingdom and Mercedes, a force of nature all her own.

While Dimitri would wish no less than such meaningful work for his friend, to have him go so quickly left him aching. The years have brought them together like two trees intertwined in root and limb. It is never easy to part from Dedue, yet his departure after such a short reunion was all the more potent. The sensation of it is difficult for Dimitri to parse through, but its similarities to homesickness are striking; he doesn’t allow himself to examine it too carefully.

It looked for a time that Dedue and Mercedes would spend the remainder of the year there and return in the spring. Instead, they chose to pass through the mountains before winter struck. They arrived with the Wyvern Moon, met with eager hugs all around and many kisses on the cheek, at least for Mercedes. Dimitri greeted Dedue and Mercedes in the Great Hall, watched by commoners and nobles alike, and embraced them both as politely as he could. When they were in his private quarters, however, he swept Mercedes into a proper hug, grinning at her musical voice. And Dedue, oh, he drew him close and held him for long moments, feeling the rumble of his laughter.

Contemplating the golden color of his drink, Dimitri continues, “Surely they are on par with the winters we find here.”

“True,” Dedue murmurs, taking a sip of his own drink. “Duscur’s winters are similar. I believe that, in part, the lower elevation of Duscur wards off Faerghus’s cold. Primarily, it is a difference in accommodations that is of note.”

“Oh?” He perks. The movement brings his knee away from Dedue’s own; to correct this in the most subtle manner he can, he allows his elbow to tilt away from his side until it brushes Dedue’s.

“Through the use of magic and Duscurian architecture, the floors are heated.”

Dimitri’s eyes widen. “The floors?”

He nods. “The mechanism is referred to as an ondol. Smoke is directed beneath the flooring. The heat rises to fill the home.”

“Is that not dangerous?” Dimitri balks. “The smoke—”

Dedue’s smile stills his tongue. “The smoke is then directed through a chimney on the other side of the home. The flooring is made of mud and stone, meaning there is no risk of sparks catching. Thanks to the ondol, straw mats like the ones used here are unnecessary.” With the toe of his boot, he nudges the mat at their feet for emphasis. He takes a long drink. His eyes crinkle.

“And this device, the ondol…”

“It is placed in the kitchen, so its use is multipurpose. It is often left burning through mechanical or magical means during the day. At night, it is allowed to rest.”

“How wonderful an invention,” Dimitri murmurs, picturing it in his mind. In ways, it reminds him of the complex series of pipes drawing forth water from the depths of the earth to the bathhouses. “So you are used to a great deal of warmth during the cooler seasons.”

“Yes. In addition, our traditional dress affords more protection from the cold. While furs are common here, few wear them in the manner found in Duscur due to the association with… barbarism and war attire. The lined coat Sylvain favors holds similarities,” he muses, “and yet, I often hear comments on even that.”

Particularly among the nobility, it’s true that the reliance upon furs is seen as improper, no matter how harsh the winter may prove. Just as Dedue said, fur is associated with war due to its use by soldiers and poverty as it is standard among commoners. Not to mention the depictions of the people of Duscur swathed in furs filling books made by Faerghian hands. After the war, Dimitri’s cloak was replaced by something slick and minimalist; Ingrid cast aside her own furs as well, though her armor remained; and Felix, despite his stubbornness, was stripped of his woolen coat by his most fussy assistants. Due to his fur-lined coat, Sylvain is somewhat of an oddity, but this is written off as the influence of the North’s most brutal temperatures. Until now, Dimitri hadn’t considered the logic of such a mentality. It seems terribly unreasonable.

Dimitri does not ask why Dedue does not simply dress as he once did. Before, when they were on the cusp of manhood, Dimitri stubbornly refused to acknowledge the whispers of others. Of course, he knew they spoke venom of Dedue and Duscur as a whole. He heard the Knights of Seiros sneering at Dedue and watched as women shied from him when he entered the greenhouse. He was forced to defend his comradeship with Dedue more times than he cares to recall. Now that he is older and wiser, he realizes the power of such talk, particularly when it reaches the ears of the powerful.

Dedue is not wrong when he speaks of the difficulty nobles and others create due to his presence. More accurately and more fairly, it is not a matter of Dedue’s presence—it is the presence of such miserable sentiments rattling in empty skulls which burdens Dimitri. It is the fact that still, despite all that Dedue has sacrificed for Crown and Kingdom, these vapid fools with their jejune opinions think it right to condemn him. Poor, venerable Dedue has a target on his back due to the land he was born to. To act and dress as he would be most comfortable in the halls of the castle would be to make life much more difficult for Dedue.

Dimitri’s crown allows him to protect Dedue in many ways, yet he fears he will one day discover the limits of his power. He frequently finds himself wishing he possessed Sylvain’s charm or Claude’s way with secrets if only to navigate this side of Faerghus’s politics. But, the good thing about being King is that he does not have to rely solely upon his own wits.

“Thank you,” Dimitri says, smiling at the cup in his hands. He strokes a thumb over the porcelain, cautious with his own strength.

Dedue makes a small noise.

“For sharing these things with me.”

The settee shifts with Dedue’s weight. His knee bumps against Dimitri’s own. Warmth blooms in Dimitri’s chest, the sensation like stepping into a ray of light. They sip their cider. They lean closer, shoulders almost touching. The silence they share is unlike any other, it is so full of comfort.

Across from them, Felix snorts loudly in his sleep and nearly rolls off the chaise.

Tenderness lacing his voice, Dedue murmurs, “I should wake him. He will be unable to rest tonight if he dozes any longer.”

Dimitri hides his smile behind his cup.

* * *

Given a free moment and the perfect opportunity, Dimitri sends out a simple request to a well-known weaver from the East. He watches the carrier leave, letter tucked safely in his satchel. Soon, he’ll have Dedue in the solar, warmed by the fire and shielded by wool and stone.

* * *

Sylvain wants to go hunting. Felix begrudgingly agrees as he is wont to do when Sylvain requests something of him. With a crooked smile and praise for his prowess with the bow, Sylvain convinces Ashe to join in.

“If you join them,” Dedue says from his side, “I would like to try my hand at venison civet.”

Dimitri glances across the solar to Felix and Sylvain. They stand very close as they speak, likely because just a moment ago Felix was half-heartedly shoving him over something or another. Dimitri’s eyes are drawn to the soft fur peeking from beneath Sylvain’s collar; it looks so very soft.

He’s well aware Dedue is taking advantage of his desire to please him to convince him to spend the afternoon out. It’s oddly endearing, at least considering Dimitri knows it’s because Dedue believes he could use some fresh air.

“Venison it is,” he decides.

The faint smile he receives is all the encouragement he needs.

* * *

“Sylvain,” Dimitri calls, directing his horse alongside Sylvain’s. “I’ve meant to ask about your coat.”

Sylvain’s smile curls. “One of the stuffy, Southern nobles bothering you about it?”

“Oh, nothing like that. I was wondering what the lining is, actually. Fur, of course, but of what?”

He glances back at Felix, who is staring resolutely ahead. Then there is Ashe, perked and watching with bright eyes. When he meets Dimitri’s gaze once more, his smile is more subdued. “Rabbit. What’s with the sudden interest, Your Majesty?”

Dimitri takes a breath. “Something Dedue said. It made me reflect on Fhirdiad’s dislike for such things.”

“Well, they would get over it pretty quickly if they spent some time in Gautier,” Sylvain laughs.

Felix scoffs from behind them but does not object.

“It was made in the Margraviate then?”

“Uh, yeah. It was.” Sylvain side-eyes him. “Thinking about changing up your wardrobe?”

This gives Dimitri pause. In truth, he’s not entirely sure where he intended to go with his line of questioning. In the days since his talk with Dedue, he’s been considering the feasibility of ordering a fur-lined jacket for Dedue. He could not wear it openly, but at the very least, it could be of use behind closed doors. This was an idea he wrote off only to return to several times. He then wrote a letter to Dorothea, one he did not send, to ask about such matters. He has no mind for fashion, of course, so this is something he must ask another about. Putting it into words seems a great feat, particularly with Dorothea’s sly smile at the forefront of his mind. Wherever his scrambled thoughts were taking him, it was not here.

“Perhaps I should,” Dimitri says. He juts out his chin as if to dare Sylvain to tease him. “The astrologers predict this winter will be particularly cruel.”

“Maybe we’ll catch something you can use,” Ashe pipes up.

Felix snorts. “Gilbert is going to keel over.”

His horse nickers as if to agree.

* * *

That night, supper is venison civet. It is, perhaps, the most luxurious meal Dimitri has ever had. It is perfectly hot and rich to counter the chill. By the end of the meal, he is full and brimming with his content. He wishes, not for the first time, that he was capable of taste.

* * *

“Might I ask you something?”

Ingrid quirks a brow. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“As your friend,” he insists. “Not as your King. Please.”

Setting her papers aside, Ingrid adjusts her seat so she may face him directly. They’re in Dimitri’s private study reviewing the details of the County of Galatea’s new tax laws. Ingrid, in these moments, is as serious and refined as she was when they were children caught in the trouble Felix and Sylvain stirred up. Working with her brings him great comfort, not because she will coddle him like many of the nobles, but because she tells him just what he needs to hear. In this respect, she is not dissimilar to Dedue or Felix, and thus her opinion is invaluable. Unlike Dedue and Felix, Ingrid provides help beyond the cabinet and training grounds.

“Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yes. It’s just…” He takes a breath, his gaze moving to paper in his hands. “I find myself lost concerning… an unusual matter.”

Ingrid leans back, brow furrowed. “You’ve certainly piqued my curiosity.”

“I have questioned, if not outright challenged, many of Faerghus’s traditions, as you well know. But it has come to my attention that there are smaller aspects of accepted culture that may be causing those I… care for undue distress.”

“You mean Dedue?”

His head jerks up. The smile Ingrid meets him with is downy and knowing in equal measure. He blinks. Where that edge of smugness in her expression came from, he does not know, but it is absurdly irritating.

Ingrid, sensing his befuddlement, waves a hand at him. “He’s the one that would suffer the most due to such things. Tell me more.”

“It is about our manner of dress. Sylvain mentioned something and, well, I wanted to make sure I would not be worsening things.”

“The fur?” She appears baffled by the thought.

“Yes, the fur. I suppose changing things would help Sylvain as well, now that I think about it.” Dimitri sighs. “The point is: If I were to alter my clothing choices in hopes of being an example of sorts, would I only worsen things? I know very little about such… trends. But I should think as King, if I were to dress differently, the nobility would follow suit.”

“Oh, well…” Ingrid frowns only to laugh a moment later. “I’m really no good with this sort of thing. You should ask Mercie or Annie, but…” Her smile softens, as do her eyes. “I think it just might work.”

Dimitri smiles, too, the heat in his chest urging him to. “I appreciate your opinion, Ingrid. Thank you.”

* * *

When Sylvain returns to the Margraviate, he takes with him the rabbit fur from their time hunting.

* * *

The rug Dimitri ordered arrives before the snow grows tall. It is a grand affair considering Dimitri very rarely orders any such thing. Wrapped tightly in linen as it is, it inspires the curiosity of all who see it. Maids peek around corners while Dedue, Dimitri, and Felix alongside some servants move the furniture of the solar to the edges of the room. Felix grouses the whole time, but it is clear his irritation is more from Sylvain’s departure than the actual task at hand.

They set the package in the center of the room. Dimitri cuts the ties binding it and together he and Dedue pull the linen away. With that, they roll the rug open. From the doorway, a maid gasps before she can stifle herself. Dimitri, even having an idea of what to expect, is stricken.

It is unlike anything Dimitri has ever seen, the patterns intricate and almost entirely unfamiliar. There are shapes like blooms and vines alongside shapes unseen in Faerghus’s art. The wool is colored midnight blue and brilliant red, detailed with shining gold thread, and fringed white. The complexity is impressive even when one does not consider the short time frame in which it was produced. So artistic is the piece, the thought of stepping upon it has Dimitri’s chest tightening.

“I have never seen anything so…”

Dimitri looks up to find that Gilbert has joined them, clearly drawn by the commotion. “Ah, Gilbert! Is there something you need?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. His eyes never leave the rug. “King Dimitri, might I ask from where such a piece was procured?”

“Claude—that is, Claude von Reigen—”

“Yes, yes, I know to whom you refer.”

“Of course. He told me once of the beauty of Almyra’s works and I thought to bring such a piece into Fhirdiad would be a symbol of… of progress between us. A connection of sorts.” He clears his throat. “And, well, I have been considering changing a few things for the better in the castle.”

“Oh?”

The servants that can pull their eyes from the rug look to him with bright eyes.

“Yes, you see, I wish to make this a comfortable place for all of us.” He pauses, considering. “Perhaps we should procure additional tapestries to line the Great Hall. Add more sigils to the servants’ quarters.”

Gilbert smiles his sad smile and nods his head. “Yes, that sounds quite nice, Your Majesty.”

* * *

Dusk finds the room returned to its original state with the new addition underfoot. Casting a surreptitious glance at Dimitri as if considering his response, Dedue sits not on the chaise but before it, directly upon the new rug. He’s as close to the fire as he can practically get. He leans against a pillow stolen from one of the armchairs and reads from  _ The Garreg Mach Tales _ .

The picture of comfort, eyes half-lidded and lips hinting at a smile, Dedue remains just where he is well into the night. Having him near and at peace—oh, Dimitri’s blood sings. A part of him, ancient and animal, is compelled by the sight. Dimitri finds himself watching Dedue rather than reading his own book; he’s unable to force his eyes to stay put when all he desires is to see that  _ look _ on Dedue’s face.

It is so rare to see Dedue with his guard down, even now that peace is building across the land. Dimitri is honored to be the one to see it. He suspects he will continue to feel this way, no matter how many years pass, no matter how normal a sight it becomes.

With reluctance, he says, “Dedue, my dear friend, I believe we should retire.”

Dedue looks at him with a question in his eyes, one Dimitri hasn’t seen before—quite a rare thing, considering the years they have spent side by side. It is gone before he has a chance to address it.

When they reach the door leading out of the solar, Dedue turns to him, eyes crinkled. “Good night, Dimitri.”

“Good night.”

Dedue departs with the hints of a smile softening his eyes.

* * *

When Sylvain returns, it’s with a beautiful, black coat. The edges are lined with brilliant, white fur. The front is decorated with intricate button knots, the thread gleaming quietly. It fits perfectly thanks to Mercedes’ measurements. Dimitri studies himself in the mirror, stroking the fur at his throat. It is terribly soft, each brush against his pulse a warm reminder. He keeps his gloves tucked in his pocket in favor of gently touching the fabric and fur.

“It’s lovely…” he murmurs.

Sylvain shifts at his side, his own eyes trained on Dimitri’s reflection, lips softly parted. “You really… You look really nice in it,” he says as if surprised.

Dimitri laughs. “Yes, thank you, Sylvain.”

His apology comes in the shape of a shrug and quirked grin.

Felix, of course, chooses exactly then to enter the room. He throws the heavy door open with a bang. In the other room, a maid releases a little shriek; she must be new.

“ _ Sylvain _ . I told you that I needed to speak to you as soon as you returned,” he barks, narrowed eyes honed in on his target. He stalks into the bedroom, light from the solar on his heels. “That means  _ immediately _ , not—” He double-takes. Narrows his eyes further.

Smiling, Dimitri holds out his arms so that he may see the piece better.

“Oh,  _ Goddess _ ,” he sneers. “I hear enough from Lady Gwenllian about Sylvain’s furs.”

“Come on!” Sylvain chides, his arms thrown wide. “If His Majesty wears them, maybe Gwen will change her mind!”

“Stop calling her that. She’s married and thrice your age.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Seeing exactly where this is going, Dimitri cuts in, saying, “Felix, if you need Sylvain for something, feel free to take him.”

“ _ Wow _ . Throw me to the wolves, huh, buddy?”

“Thank you for this, Sylvain. Truly.” Dimitri holds the coat tighter to his body, shifting to gaze at himself from the side. “If all goes well, I may ask for more help in the future.”

“It won’t go well,” Felix mutters.

“And if you’re proven correct, Felix, I shall be thanking you for your help with, ah, damage control.”

Felix rolls his eyes, arms uncrossing so he may plant his hands on his hips. “Whatever. Sylvain. Now.” He turns and stalks away. Sylvain jolts to follow like a dog on a lead.

Shaking his head, Dimitri adjusts his coat, checks that his eyepatch won’t be going anywhere and departs. The maid dusting the sitting room peeks at him from under her lashes and pauses. Her shock outweighs her shyness, and she studies him openly. Dimitri hasn’t seen her before, and that combined with her anxious fiddling with her skirts confirms she must be new. He smiles, nodding to her. It snaps her out of her thoughts and she blushes to the roots of her hair before turning back to her work.

On his way to the cabinet, Dimitri passes a few nobles whose eyes catch on his collar before moving on, but no one dares speak. Dimitri is early, but not earlier than Dedue. Dedue sits where he always does, his chair already shifted closer to Dimitri’s own as if he’s awaiting his presence. Dimitri’s chest tightens. The sensation is nigh overwhelming, yet its source is imperceptible and it is all the more disarming for it. Swallowing thickly, Dimitri urges his feet forward despite their leaden weight.

Before Dedue sits a sprawl of papers. From behind him, Dimitri can only just make out that he’s studying letters from Lord Kleiman. His neck is bowed and his scarf slips down to reveal the fine hair at the base of his skull. The compulsion to press his bare palm to that stretch of skin is strong, but Dimitri’s will wins out in the end.

“Dedue, my friend,” Dimitri greets, pulling out the chair next to him. “I see you are working intently—I would hate to interrupt, but if there’s any way I can help…”

“Thank you for your concern. At the moment, there is nothing to be done. I am merely considering options.”

Frowning, he takes his seat and carefully moves even closer to Dedue—close enough that their elbows could brush, if he moved just so. “Dedue… if you wish to spend more time in Duscur, perhaps as a more permanent figure, I would never seek to stop you, my friend. Your presence would be very beneficial. Of course, I would not force you to go—no, I must admit, it would not be the same without you by my side. But—”

Dedue looks at him sharply. “No, Your Majesty. While the prospect of living in Duscur once more is…” His brow furrows. Reaching out, he strokes his finger over the fur at Dimitri’s collar. Dimitri goes stiff as a board, skin prickling with a blush. The fur brushes his throat. Dedue’s lips part.

“I, ah, had Sylvain…” The words that were just on the tip of his tongue are there no more. He swallows.

“Is this… wise?” Dedue meets his eyes, expression tight. His touch lingers. “If the nobility—”

“I am King,” Dimitri huffs, sounding far more petulant than he hoped to. “They cannot challenge my own choice of dress, surely.”

Dedue’s frown deepens. “You are doing this for me.”

“Perhaps I’m doing it for Sylvain.”

The look Dedue sends him is so very dull he almost laughs. “Please, you do not have to…” He shakes his head. “You do not have to do so much for me.”

With trembling fingers, Dimitri touches the inside of Dedue’s wrist. “I want to do things for you, my friend. And, believe it or not, wearing warmer clothing is no sacrifice on my part.”

Dedue huffs out a laugh, finally allowing his hand to fall away. “I see.” He clasps his hands together in his lap. His expression is soft and open. “Thank you, Dimitri.”

Cheeks burning, Dimitri turns away.

* * *

“I see you’ve changed your wardrobe, Your Majesty.” Lord Olwen peers at him over the rim of his glasses. Olwen is a wiry man in charge of a very small cut of land in the south. It has left him hungry for more influence, no matter the cost. As a result, his words are rarely of import.

Dimitri forces a smile, hand going to his collar without thought; the softness of the fur catches him off guard once more. “Yes, I just received it this morning. It is quite warm—perfect for the season.”

Olwen purses his lips.

Felix sighs heavily from his spot next to Dimitri. “Here we go…”

Dimitri kicks his shin,  _ lightly _ , under the table. Felix kicks back without the same care. Dedue looks on out of the corner of his eye, clearly unamused.

“I must say,” pipes up Lord Tamlin. He is the viscount of an equally small castle, but unlike Olwen, he is quite eager to make nice. “Your Majesty, I did not anticipate such a change. I do hope this is not a hint that a battle is brewing?”

Dimitri holds up a hand. “Rest assured, all is well. When I say I was seeking warmth, I’m being sincere.” He strokes the fur once more. “I do not wish to cause alarm, however.”

“Oh, no!” Tamlin laughs, waving his worries away. “I’m simply not used to it. I’m sure it will be no time at all before all the young lads are donning such elegant styles themselves.”

The look Olwen sends him is sharp if childish. He quickly replaces it with a smarmy grin. “Where  _ did _ such a lovely piece come from, might I ask?” 

The smile that warms Dimitri’s face remains for the rest of the day.

* * *

By the end of the week, Fhirdiad is brimming with furs. The men wear coats lined with marten while the ladies’ dresses are decorated at cuffs, hems, and necklines with squirrel. Budge appears on tunics with a suddenness that surprises even Dimitri, considering the length one must go to find the Almyran-born sheep. There’s an uptick in meals containing good meat in the castle.

Sylvain is perhaps too pleased with the development, waltzing about with the puffiest coat Dimitri has ever laid eyes on. Even Felix casts aside his usual stubborn refusal to enjoy anything others do and returns to wearing his wartime clothing. Well, until Ingrid forces him into something new. The ladies seem pleased as well, particularly Ingrid, who is often seen nosing against the downy fur on her shoulder.

Gilbert may look as if he’s consumed soured milk, but otherwise, all is well. Dimitri would even call it a success, at least so far, but there’s still another step to this plan.

Dedue watches Fhirdiad’s fashion evolve with a ghost of a smile. Looking at him for too long stirs such waves of emotion in Dimitri’s chest he can hardly stand it.

When a lord gifts Dimitri with an ermine wrap, Dimitri knows it is a trend that will stick. With that reassurance, he goes to the maid in charge of all clothing and adjustments to retrieve Dedue’s measurements. Appropriate letters and payments are sent here and there, measurements printed in Dimitri’s careful script. When all is done, Dimitri sits back, eye closed. He can’t help but smile.

* * *

The coat is the deep teal that Dedue favors. Its collar is high and decorated with a fur of a beautiful, overwhelming white. At the cuffs, subtle strips of brocade form a pattern of silver thistles against a darker blue, and then there’s more fur still. Lining the front and dotting the sleeves are buttons of burnished silver. From a distance, the piece is simple enough, but each detail speaks to care.

Dimitri cradles the piece close, stroking the fur lining its interior. His mind returns to the well-pleased smile Ingrid sported and the quirk of Sylvain’s brow when he turned the conversation to this matter. His hands still.

“ _ Oh _ ,” he whispers. Even in the quiet of his chambers, safe from all eyes but his own, his throat tightens. His hands tremble. Drawing the coat to his chest, he focuses on each breath.

* * *

In the days following the coat’s arrival, Dimitri is distracted. He couldn’t bring himself to give the coat to Dedue, not after realizing the weight of his own feelings. Instead, heart in his throat, he folded it with unsteady hands and placed it in the chest at the foot of his bed. He spent long moments kneeling on the floor of his chambers, hands resting on the chest and cheeks burning. Sleep does not come easily to Dimitri on good days, but the added pressure of the coat’s presence keeps him up for long hours, tossing and turning. He dreams of giving it to Dedue, or attempting to, only to find his hands stuck to the fabric so that Dedue cannot accept it; he wakes from these dreams, hair sticking to his cheeks and stomach churning.

Even outside of his chambers and the solar, his thoughts stray to the coat. When meetings drag on, he finds himself studying the great table, eyes tracing patterns in the wood’s grain. At times, it keeps his mind from the coat, but it’s rarely so. Dedue sits so close, Dimitri can smell the oils he wears and feel his warmth; it is very difficult to think of anything else with him right there, and even harder to stifle the fluttering of his stomach. At dinner, when Sylvain distracts the others with wild hand motions and accounts of past flirtations, Dimitri’s mind wanders.

It’s clear he won’t be at rest until he gets it done, yet anxiety seizes him each time he goes to take action. What truly stays his hand is the fear that such a gift will make apparent the emotions brewing in his chest, if they’re not already clear to Dedue. Obviously, the others are all too aware; just thinking about it sends a flush creeping down his throat. At least, there has been no sign that Dedue knows himself. Perhaps that’s the best he can hope for.

If he were to ruin his bond with Dedue, he would be well and truly lost. Certainly, Dimitri is blessed to be supported by so many wonderful individuals, but Dedue is the one he relies upon the most. In nearly all areas of life, Dedue is a source of support, and more so than anyone else. With Dimitri’s promise manifesting in physical form, Duscur being officially exonerated and freed from Faerghus’s rule, he has the honor of calling Dedue his friend. With that friendship formed, Dedue has only grown more devoted to him. Dimitri thought it would ease his intensity, even, but it has only made Dedue all the more fierce.

Dimitri is hyper-aware of the crown’s weight, of the power he holds and what that means when he interacts with others. It feels both unimportant and particularly potent when it comes to Dedue, who cares little for the throne and deeply for the man but is in such a precarious position socially. This power is how he protects Dedue, yet he fears it could easily be contorted. Under no circumstances would he ever wish to make Dedue feel pressured to return his feelings to maintain the shield Dimitri has created. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.

A gift has never weighed so heavily upon his shoulders.

* * *

Exhausted from his thoughts and a morning full of bickering nobles, Dimitri retreats to the solar. He claims the chaise before Felix can appear on silent feet and take it for himself, drawing a throw blanket over his legs. A maid adds a log to the fire and flutters away, closing the door to the solar behind her. He watches through lidded eyes as the snow falls, melting against the window panes. The sky is a murky gray, as is the sunlight that spills from it. The moment should be one of comfort, yet even now, his heart aches.

Fingers curling against the fabric, he takes a deep breath and allows his head to tilt back. A pulsing has begun behind his eye. The pain wreathes his skull with a sickly heat. It would help to take a nap, he thinks, but his shoulders are drawn so tight he can hardly relax.

One of the resident mouse catchers makes his presence known with a pitiful meow. Dimitri peeks to find an indignant Gautieron at the foot of the chaise, rubbing himself against the leg. There are few cats in the tower; most are let loose in the kitchens and the Great Hall, free to catch any vermin and sneak bits of meat from children’s fingers. He suspects the staff assumes he would rather there not be cats in the solar, which is far from the truth. Though he has been known to almost trip over a cat or two that slinks beyond his sight and he adores his hunting dogs, cats are a lovely resource in many ways. It would please him greatly for more of the creatures to slip into the solar, unbeknownst to the staff.

A huff of laughter escapes him, loosening the knots in his shoulders. He lowers his hand, holding it out to the cat. Quickly, the offering is accepted and the darling presses its neck to his fingers, rumbling when scratched. Dimitri scoops the Gautieron up and watches as it kneads the blanket. Dimitri’s abdomen is chosen as the perfect bedding and the sweet creature sprawls across him, its purr ever-present and only growing when Dimitri scratches beneath its chin. A little attention is the least he can do in turn for the extra warmth.

Pleased, Dimitri dozes. The noise is just enough for his mind to catch on, soothing his racing thoughts. The repetition of his petting, too, is calming. Though light, the little Gautieron’s weight is grounding, focusing Dimitri’s mind on his breaths and the resulting movement.

A familiar scoff rouses him. Dimitri opens his eye to find Felix sneering as he stalks to the settee. It strikes him funny as if this is Felix’s own grouchy meow. He bites his tongue. No good would come of telling Felix such.

“I’m sorry for taking your usual spot,” Dimitri says.

Felix scoffs. “Whatever. I’m sleeping here. Don’t bother me.”

“Do your chambers lack suitable accommodations?” Dimitri asks, sincerely curious. The Gautieron paws at his hand to draw his fingers from the velvet of its ear.

“It’s warmer here.” His belt, sword still attached, is placed upon the floor with care. He sits down heavily and angrily kicks out his legs. Before kicking off his boots, he slips a knife from his right and places it beneath the pillow at his back. The jacket he wears, lined with sable, is tugged off and laid over his chest and thighs. With one last accusatory glare, he rolls so he’s facing the back of the settee and tucks in his legs.

The position conjures up images of cats dozing in patches of sunlight in Dimitri’s mind; he forces down a laugh and closes his eye once more. The purring pitches louder.

“Would you like another tapestry to add to your chambers?”

“ _ Sleeping _ .”

Dimitri’s smile stretches wider. “I could order you a rug as well. What colors would you prefer?”

“Shut up.”

“Alright, alright…” He chuckles. “I simply can’t imagine you not accepting a chance to avoid my personal chambers.”

Felix groans and presses a hand to his eyes. “Just because you can’t sleep doesn’t mean you have to damn me to the same fate.”

A laugh bursts from his chest. The cat curls its claws into the blanket and casts him a bitter look, but is otherwise unperturbed. “How unusually histrionic of you.”

“Is there a reason you’re suddenly so talkative?” Felix grits out. “Never mind. I already know.”

Dimitri’s eye pops back open. “You do?”

“You’re  _ obvious _ ,” he spits. “You both are. It’s disgusting.”

He sits up, the cat caught in the cradle of his arms. “Both?” A blush crawls up his throat when his voice cracks around the word.

Felix groans louder. “ _ Sleeping _ .”

* * *

As soon as Dedue sits next to him at supper, Dimitri turns and catches him by the shoulder. Beneath his hand, Dedue radiates warmth. His coat is woven and thus scratches somewhat unpleasantly against his palm, yet the thought of pressing closer leaves his chest aching. Oh, how he  _ aches _ .

Dedue’s eyebrows raise, eyes finding Dimitri’s. When Dimitri hesitates, he leans closer—close enough for Dimitri to see the soft brown threaded through the blue of his eyes. “Is all well?” Dedue whispers. His hand lingers between them as if he wants to return the gesture, but thinks better of it, considering their audience.

To feel Dedue’s broad hand upon his shoulder—a hand that has protected and cared for him through all things—

“Dimitri?” His brow furrows.

Dimitri swallows weakly, his throat almost too tight for him to do so. He forces himself to maintain eye contact. “After dinner, will you follow me to my chambers?”

Dedue’s expression darkens further.

“There’s nothing wrong,” Dimitri rushes to add. “It’s—I have something I wish to give you.”

The tension drains from him, his face softening. Inclining his head, Dedue says, “Of course, Your Majesty.”

_ As your friend, not your King _ , rests on the tip of Dimitri’s tongue. The words refuse to pass his lips, instead filling his mouth like cotton. Are these truly the actions of a friend?

Throughout supper, Dedue casts Dimitri subtle looks. He keeps his gaze carefully trained elsewhere, knowing well that to meet Dedue’s eyes would be to allow his control to crumble. As it is, Dimitri’s skin prickles beneath his attention; he sends out silent prayers that his blush is too light to spot. At the very least, Sylvain’s tale of Lady Gwenllian flirting with Felix distracts their friends. Dimitri has never before been so thankful for Felix’s creative cursing.

After dinner, the two make their way to the solar in silence. Each step brings more pressure to Dimitri’s throat; he doubts he could speak even if he wanted to. When they enter, they find the fire in the hearth is weakened but still alive. Dedue breaks away from Dimitri’s side to add another log, giving him the chance to slip into his chambers.

Blessedly, Dimitri’s hands are steady as he retrieves the coat. He unwraps it with care and holds it to his chest as if to shield it. With a deep breath, he returns to the solar.

Dedue stands by the hearth, hands outstretched to capture the warmth. It seems even now, he’s suffering from the frigid temperatures. Dimitri’s chest tightens. Caught on delicate strings, his heart draws him to Dedue. Silently, he holds out the coat for the firelight to catch upon.

For a moment, Dedue studies the gift. When he looks to Dimitri, it’s with a soft confusion coloring his features.

“For you,” Dimitri croaks, lifting it higher. Luckily, his hands are steady.

Slowly, Dedue takes the bundle from Dimitri’s hands. He unfolds it with care and holds it at arm's length to study. His lips part, but no words come forth.

“It’s lettice fur,” Dimitri says. “From the Margraviate. Sylvain assisted in its creation. The, ah… If you don’t…”

Dedue catches his gaze. “Would you help me put it on?”

Dimitri nods numbly, taking the jacket from Dedue’s hands so he can shrug out of his coat. Beneath, Dedue wears a simple turtleneck that clings to his chest. In the firelight, his eyes gleam and the strong lines of his body are cast in stark relief. Flushing to his throat, Dimitri looks away.

He expects Dedue to hand him his old coat and take the new. Instead, Dedue folds it over and places it on the chaise. His muscles shift and Dimitri is helpless, unable to draw his eyes away. Dedue is a handsome man in all ways physical and emotional. His body is honed and built through years of training and battle, yet his heart was golden from the start.

It didn’t occur to him before, but now, all Dimitri can imagine is helping Dedue into the coat. He would draw his fingers across the strength of his arms and the broad planes of his shoulders as he went. Even through such thick fabric, he would be able to feel the warmth of Dedue’s body. He’s touched Dedue thousands of times over, has tended his wounds and bathed him when he was weak with fever. Yet the prospect of contact has never set his blood aflame like this.

Swallowing, Dimitri adjusts his grip on the piece’s collar. He holds the coat out, hoping Dedue will understand. The crinkling of his eyes is answer enough. He turns and Dimitri guides the coat onto his arms. Despite his best efforts not to, Dimitri watches Dedue’s muscles shift with each movement. Strapping as he is, he is never anything but purposeful and thus gentle; Dimitri both admires and envies him for it. When Dedue faces him once more, it’s with a smile larger than any Dimitri has seen him bear before.

Moving on instinct, Dimitri steps closer, easing into Dedue’s space. It feels as if he has stepped beyond a blessed barrier and into a holy place, his skin going hot and cold. He eases his gloves from his hands, taking his time, before placing them in his pocket. Dedue follows each movement, gaze nearly a physical force tracing over his fingers.

“Does it fit comfortably?” Dimitri murmurs, pulling the coat closed so he can button it up the front.

“Yes.” Dedue’s sigh stirs his hair.

“To the top?” he asks, making his way up Dedue’s chest.

“Please.”

“But of course…”

As Dimitri’s fingers near Dedue’s throat, they begin to tremble. He can feel each breath Dedue takes beneath his hands and each he releases plays in his hair. Of all the intimate things he’s done with Dedue, somehow this pierces his heart beyond the rest. If the Goddess is merciful, the firelight will obscure the coloring of Dimitri’s cheeks.

Dedue’s presence fills the room. Dimitri cannot tear his eyes from Dedue’s throat, cannot help but take deep breaths of his scent, to allow his fingers to linger just long enough to feel the shift of his chest. It has been many years since he last felt so raw before Dedue alone, but it is not a harsh sensation—no, it is tinged with hunger and softened by the fluttering in his middle. It’s near intoxicating.

“Is it—” Dimitri’s fingers falter on the last button, brushing against Dedue’s throat. Dimitri sucks in a breath.

Dedue swallows. “ _ Dimitri _ ,” he breathes, voice dipping low, shaking Dimitri to his core.

Taking a shaking breath, Dimitri forces himself to slip the final button home. For another moment still, his hands linger. In the light, the silver buttons are almost golden. Slowly, as if afraid of shattering such a fragile moment, Dimitri allows his hands to fall away. He stares at the point where fur brushes the skin at Dedue’s throat, unable to look away.

“Dimitri…”

“You were cold,” Dimitri says weakly. “I… I couldn’t stand the thought.”

“Oh, Dimitri.”

Dedue’s hands catch one of Dimitri’s between them, drawing it close as he dips his head. His breath is hot, but his lips are near burning against Dimitri’s knuckles. A wounded noise wrenches itself from Dimitri’s throat, the pull of it enough he jolts forward. Unswayed, Dedue presses another kiss to Dimitri’s skin. Each touch is electric, the sensation spreading up his arm and seeping into his chest.

Dimitri presses his free hand to his trembling lips. To feel Dedue’s lips, warm and tender, against his skin is so much. And yet, the greedy creature that he is, it stirs a hunger for more. Returning his kisses to hand and throat and lips—Dimitri can think of no greater pleasure.

“Dimitri,” Dedue breathes and kisses his next knuckle and the next. “My King and my friend, your kindness knows no bounds.”

A pain like a knife to the ribs forces a gasp from Dimitri. He wrenches his hand from Dedue’s to cradle to his chest. It still tingles from Dedue’s ministrations, his skin unwilling to forget such tenderness.

His heart races. Words rush to his throat only to become jumbled. “No… No, Dedue, I…” He bites his lip. He cannot meet Dedue’s eyes.

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Dedue rasps. He steps back. “I have crossed the line.”

“No!” Dimitri chokes out. He forces himself to meet Dedue’s gaze. “ _ No _ . Please, it-it is…  _ I _ should apologize to you. I did not give you this gift as your friend. You did not cross any line,” he says firmly. “It is I who…”

Dedue’s eyes widen and his lips part. The knife twists.

Taking a stumbling step away, Dimitri turns his head. “Dedue, I…”

In a heartbeat, Dedue is before him. He cradles his face between his hands, thumbs stroking his cheeks. Each touch awakens his blood, stirring his heart. His stomach tumbles over itself, the sensation like falling from a great height on the back of a pegasus. It’s almost too much.

Dedue’s eyes are endlessly dark and capture Dimitri’s own with ease. “Dimitri, please tell me, do you desire me as I desire you?”

Dimitri’s knees go weak to the point he must catch himself on Dedue’s shoulders. “You desire me?” Speaking the words is enough to leave his head spinning.

“I do. My devotion to you… it runs deeper than friendship alone,” he confesses. “I wish to be by your side in all things. But I would never force my feelings upon you. Never. I am happy—no, I am blessed to be your friend, Dimitri. To ask for more—”

“Yes!” he whispers, voice strained with the weight of his need. His fingers curl against the softness of the coat. “Yes, Dedue, I-I desire you so deeply, I—”

Dedue releases a shuddering breath. Awe dawns on his face, his eyes are wide and lips so soft.

“ _ Please _ ,” Dimitri gasps. “Please, I don’t know if I can live another moment without knowing your kiss.”

Drawing Dimitri closer still, Dedue dips his head and presses his lips to Dimitri’s own. This first kiss is barely there, soft with their nerves and thrumming hearts. Dimitri gasps, chest tight with starlight. He must be glowing from the inside out from the warmth spilling through him, curling around bone and muscle. Dedue kisses his bottom lip, his cheek, his jaw. With a sob, Dimitri moves a hand to the back of Dedue’s neck. He guides him into another kiss, one that lingers.

The noise Dedue makes, deep and rumbling, sends shivers down Dimitri’s spine. “ _ Dimitri _ ,” he breathes for Dimitri to catch on his lips. “You… I must…”

“Be with me, my love,” Dimitri pleads. “There is nothing simple about our circumstances, but… I love you, both as a friend and… and I realize now, my feelings, my adoration for you.” He strokes his fingers across the nape of Dedue’s neck, biting his lip when he feels Dedue’s shivers. “I would never ask more of you than what you are willing to give. To have you by my side as a friend is more than enough. A blessing among blessings.”

With a dark groan, Dedue’s hand moves from cradling Dimitri’s jaw to the back of his head, fingers carding through his hair. Pleasure sparks down Dimitri’s neck like healing magic curling beneath his skin. His breath catches.

Dedue studies him, takes in every raw inch of Dimitri’s soul in one look. His eyes are as endless and gleaming as the night sky. How did it take so long for Dimitri to see it? To recognize the way Dedue awakens his blood and breath? Oh, his heart, his soul, they  _ quake  _ beneath the weight of Dedue’s attention.

“As I said,” he murmurs, thumb tracing Dimitri’s jaw, “I wish to be by your side. I… I want to be your partner in all things.”

Dimitri swallows. “And my lover?”

Dedue’s eyes slip to Dimitri’s lips. “More than your body… It is more than your body that I desire.”

Blushing from his ears down to his throat, Dimitri looks away in hopes of catching his breath. “I did not mean… to give the impression that, ah, I merely…”

“ _ No _ . No, you did not. I just want to be sure that you know what I mean by my… declarations.” Dedue’s fingers curl against his scalp as if afraid he’ll draw away.

“A love of mind and body.” Dimitri can hardly speak, his voice is shaking so. His chest aches, his heart beats so harshly.

Fingers slipping into Dedue’s hair, pulling it from its confines, Dimitri draws his beloved into another kiss still. He takes his time, appreciating the plushness of Dedue’s mouth. With teeth and tongue, he draws Dedue’s lip between his own. His teasing earns another lovely moan.

Dedue’s hands, broad and strong, grip his hip and rub his neck. It is rare for Dimitri to feel small in any circumstance, but in Dedue’s arms, he is nearly encompassed, the Moon embraced by the Earth’s shadow. Holding him against his broad chest, Dedue returns his kiss with equal fervor, tongue tracing his own. He wrings whines and whimpers from Dimitri, who is too entranced to stop such sounds from spilling forth.

Each touch quiets his mind further, draining the tension from his body until he’s standing only thanks to Dedue. Had he ever known such pleasure and peace? He can’t recall.

Breaking the kiss, Dedue moves his lips to Dimitri’s cheek. “Dima,” he breathes.

Dimitri shivers and noses against his cheek in turn. “Sleep by my side. Just for tonight.”

“If I could, I would sleep by your side every night.”

“ _ Oh _ , please,” he gasps. “Please, if I know such pleasure, could I ever let you go again?”

Another kiss to his cheek. “My heart, as fate has shown, nothing could keep us apart.”

Regaining his wits, Dimitri guides Dedue to his chambers. Dedue smiles as Dimitri immediately strips him of his jacket, chuckling to himself. With it resting atop the chest at the foot of the bed, Dedue helps Dimitri out of his jacket in turn, kissing Dimitri all the while. Their shoes are left by the bed along with their belts and various knives. Smiling, Dimitri helps Dedue out of his turtleneck, laughing breathlessly when it gets caught about his chin. Eager yet trembling once more, Dimitri traces Dedue’s collar bones, kisses them, traces them again with fingers and lips.

“Dima,” he hums and pets his hair. “Let me.” With sure hands, Dedue unbuttons Dimitri’s undershirt, pausing to brush his knuckles over the lines of Dimitri’s stomach. When his muscles jump and his breath leaves him in a pant, Dedue kisses him softly. “Beautiful,” he whispers against Dimitri’s lips. “So beautiful.”

Beneath his warm hands, Dimitri finds the chilly air doesn’t bite as harshly as usual. He takes his time peeling away his trousers, if only because Dedue’s hands stroking his back distract him. When he’s stripped to his braies, he tugs Dedue’s trousers down his thighs before pushing him insistently to sit on the bed. Dedue tries to catch him and draw him onto the bed with him, but Dimitri steps back, taking Dedue’s pants with him. Then he allows himself to be pulled into bed, laughing as Dedue reclines, sending Dimitri sprawling onto his chest.

Beneath his hands, Dedue is like an ember. The heat his skin is jarring enough to free Dimitri’s head of its fog. Feeling his breath against his cheek, his fingertips skimming across Dimitri’s sides, his pebbled nipples against his chest—Dimitri’s stomach tenses with his desire.

More kisses are shared. Dimitri presses as close to Dedue as he can, rubbing his chest against Dedue’s own to feel the softness of his skin. With a broken moan, Dedue rolls, catching Dimitri beneath him. Dimitri spreads his legs, hooking one over Dedue’s hip and drawing him closer, easing him into the cradle of his body. It’s a perfect fit as if Dedue is meant to be here, above him, all around him.

“What do you desire, beloved?” Dimitri cups his face, fingers tracing the elegant line of his cheekbone.

“You, Dimitri. You are all I desire. The details matter little.”

Clutching at Dedue’s shoulders, Dimitri whispers, “You have me. I am here, and I am yours to love.”

Dedue kisses him, tongue teasing his own before moving to the roof of his mouth. Squirming, eye fluttering, Dimitri arches his back. He feels too big and hot for his own skin like he has to move, to do something, and  _ oh _ , his hips slot perfectly with Dedue’s own. Through the soft fabric of their underbreeches, their lengths rub past each other. A spark catches in Dimitri’s abdomen, fiercely hot. He gasps into the kiss, hips stuttering forward, seeking more.

Moaning long and deep, Dedue grinds against Dimitri in turn. He breathes in Dimitri’s whimpers and tastes his name on his lips. As if desperate to feel all of him, Dedue braces himself on his elbow and palms his free hand down Dimitri’s side, his hip, his thigh. His grip is strong yet never painful as he guides Dimitri’s other leg about his waist.

Locking his legs over Dedue’s thighs, Dimitri drags him close and  _ grinds _ . A shocked, breathless sound escapes Dedue followed by a heady groan. Dimitri finds himself smiling up at him, terribly pleased with himself even as he shivers from the pleasure.

With a twist of his hips and spine, Dimitri rolls them over once more, pinning Dedue beneath him. He makes a beautiful sight, eyes darkened with lust and lips slick. His hands find Dimitri’s waist and he squeezes gently before rubbing his thumbs across his hip bones. Biting his lip, Dimitri braces his hands against Dedue’s taut abdomen and rolls his hips. Pleasure curls through him like smoke. His breath catches. Beneath him, Dedue’s head falls back, his eyes lidded. His mouth is beautiful and slack with want.

“You’re utterly gorgeous,” Dimitri chokes out, hips moving on their own accord.

Dedue moans, fingers tightening at his hips. His throat bobs. His lips tremble.

“The most beautiful sight.” Dimitri bites his lip, barely holding in a cry as his cock, now dripping it is so terribly hard, rubs against Dedue’s perfectly. “Touch me.  _ Please _ , my love, I need…”

“ _ Yes _ .”

Fingers play across Dimitri’s abdomen and find his nipples, teasing with light touches. It’s like Dedue has taken hold of a line straight to his throbbing prick, plucking the perfect string. His cock twitches, precum wetting his braies. Flushing to his ears, Dimitri releases a pitiful little wail. His grinding becomes desperate, sharp jerks of his hips.

With shaking hands, Dedue tugs at the waist of Dimitri’s underthings. The first brush of his skin against Dimitri’s straining cock has him close to sobbing.

“Lovely,” Dedue growls. He gently draws Dimitri’s foreskin from the flushed head of his cock and teases his fingertips across the dampened slit. Dimitri’s cock twitches beneath the attention, precum dripping from him his lust is burning so brightly.

“ _ Dedue _ , please, please—my love,” he gasps out, rutting into the loose grip of Dedue’s hand. “I can’t take—I’m close!”

Dedue frees his own cock with his other hand and presses it to Dimitri’s own. His skin is slick and beautifully hot. His hand is big enough to curl around both of their lengths, holding them steady as they thrust and grind. It’s hot and wet and rough. The sight is so utterly debauched that Dimtri’s stomach flips, his face flushing further.

“ _ Dimitri _ ,” Dedue breathes, thumb teasing the heads of their cocks. The burning in Dimitri’s abdomen draws tighter, building and building with each touch. “Let go for me.”

His body going tense and mouth soft around a silent cry, Dimitri shudders through his climax. Dedue gasps and follows him over the brink.

Dimitri slumps over, too boneless to catch himself. Dedue grunts but doesn’t complain. Nuzzling into the crook of his neck, Dimitri mindlessly mumbles thanks and praise, whispering his love against Dedue’s skin. Humming, Dedue presses his nose to Dimitri’s hair.

Eventually, Dimitri drags himself from the bed, hushing Dedue when he protests. In the corner, a small basin is kept; the water is terribly cold, but there’s no helping it. He takes the rag next to it, wets it, and returns to Dedue. Smiling apologetically, he makes quick work of wiping the cum from Dedue’s skin and then his own. He returns the rag to its place beside the basin and quickly finds his way back to bed and into Dedue’s arms.

Together, they climb beneath the covers and draw the bed’s curtains closed. Dimitri curls against Dedue’s back, nose pressed to the base of his throat and arm tucked beneath his neck. Dedue eagerly presses closer and draws the covers over them both.

“I will return to my quarters before sunrise,” Dedue says. “To ensure no questions are raised.”

Dimitri wraps an arm around his waist, holding him tighter still. It is the logical thing to do, but Dimitri is loathe to accept it with Dedue’s skin like a brand against his own. “You will do no such thing. You will sleep at my side and have breakfast with me in the morning.”

With laughter tinting his voice, he asks, “And the staff?”

“They like you. I doubt they will say anything, and if they do, it will hardly be worse than the usual idle gossip. You’ve heard, of course, of Lady Gwenllian’s sudden lust for Sylvain.” Dimitri traces a scar across Dedue’s abdomen. “I will always protect you, my love. If the nobles cause you trouble… But, perhaps I’ve teased you too much. Truly, I respect the weight of your worries; I’ll understand if you feel more comfortable returning to your chambers.”

Laughing openly now, a low sound like a summer storm, Dedue places his hand over Dimitri’s own. He gives it a squeeze. “Perhaps, for now, it would be for the best. But… next time.”

“ _ Oh _ . Oh, yes.” Dimitri kisses his shoulder-blade. “Next time. That sounds quite nice.”

“It is much warmer by your side, after all.” Dedue draws his hand to his lips so that he may press a kiss to his knuckles.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think hh I put way too much time into this
> 
> There's no fucking way Fhirdiad isn't already full of fur to stay warm, this is just an excuse for... whatever this is. But this is based on how fur was treated at certain times, in certain places, in Medieval-ish Europe. I referred to that and a lot of random Medieval and Rennaisance stuff online for this.
> 
> me @ the social norms of fantasy settings
> 
> You can find me:  
> [@badscienceman](http://badscienceman.tumblr.com/) on tumblr  
> [link text](https://twitter.com/konigscrusade) on Twitter (NSFW) (Coffee?)


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